


down the long, winding hill ;

by therentyoupay



Series: // [2]
Category: Frozen (2013), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, College, F/M, Modern AU, Modern Era, One Shot, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 17:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2701265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therentyoupay/pseuds/therentyoupay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His phone is still quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	down the long, winding hill ;

**Author's Note:**

> _12/1/14_. The very unexpected, much-requested sequel to _on the sly at a stoplight_. I honestly wasn’t planning to move forward with this, but then I found out about Jelsa Week and couldn’t seem to get it out of my head. This is written for **Jelsa Week, Day 1: First**. I've only got one other entry lined up for the week, and this one was written out over the course of two days.I had a lot of fun writing the first one-shot with minimal dialogue, so I'm trying that out again here. Hopefully this stays true enough to the style of the original! 
> 
> Also, please note: this is probably the only fic I’ve written in at least two years (?) that isn’t slow-burn romance. Enjoy it while it lasts. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

 

* * *

  **down the long, winding hill ;  
**

* * *

He shouldn't have gone home for Thanksgiving.

Well, he should have—he _had_ —because he missed his kid sister and his mom's cooking, and yeah, okay, it was totally worth it to spend a few quiet days at home.

But then he came back.

And now he doesn't know what to do with himself.

His roommate isn't back from break yet, so Jack's just sitting alone in his room, staring at his phone. He'd finished his homework already, simply for lack of anything better to do—unless someone asked, in which case, he'd claim essays up to his ears; since when the hell does _Jackson Overland_ get his homework done on time?

Probably since he found out the girl he has a major liking for has a double major.

And is super smart. And super self-disciplined. Like— _really_ good at studying, and doing all of her assignments—not just on time, _early—_ and still somehow manages to go out almost every weekend, anyway. (Who likes to go dancing and read lots of books and sometimes go to fancy wine bars, though he only knows about that last part because of a maybe-slightly-envious Anna.) A straight-A kind of student, who's gonna graduate in six months _summa cum laude._

(He'd had to look it up, just to see what it meant; his original assumptions hadn't exactly been appropriate for polite conversation.)

So here he is, pathetic and pining at 5PM on a Sunday night, with nothing to save himself from the indignity. Through the too-thin dorm walls Jack can hear the sounds of students returning, all shuffling about in the corridor with backpacks and too-big dufflebags—no doubt full of freshly-clean laundry that they got done at home for free; Jack would know—and making a fuss over reunions that are way too enthusiastic for having been gone all of five days.

Or maybe Jack is just jealous.

His phone is still quiet.

Just as Jack is about to consider reverting back to the ways of Netflix, or bumming around in the common room until someone starts up an aimless chat, or potentially starting another session of tremulous internal conflict over whether or not Elsa has not texted him back in four days because she is bored of him, or angry with him, or has forgotten he exists—his roommate arrives.

Jack is able to look mostly natural—watching a commercial on the TV he'd been using as background noise, so as not to drown himself in silence—with his completed homework all spread around in casual disarray, and a sloppy dip of a smile to boot. He's surprised that he's generally excited to see him, remembers his lonely-ass self, and then thinks—maybe not.

It's 6PM by the time Jack checks his phone again.

Elsa has still not texted him back.

* * *

Anna texts him first.

Checks in to let him know that she's arriving late that night— _Hey! The 'rents had this fancy soiree shindig we had to host all weekend, and we're only hitting the road now!_ —gives him the most meager of eager hopes that _this_ is why Elsa has been too busy to respond back to him, and he then wisely declares himself hopeless.

He doesn't hesitate to text back promptly, though. He's not a dick.

Asks if they wanna hit up the dining hall or the campus pizza place around the corner when they get in, like he _hasn't_ discovered the great weakness of Anna's that is pizza, like it's no big deal that they're running late and he _hasn't_ been anxiously awaiting this moment for half a week. But it's all in vain, anyway.

_Ohhhhhh, man... I'mma crash at Elsa's for the night and hightail it over there for an 8AM class with a gallon of coffee. Sorry, dude._

Then, _RAIN CHECK, OVERLAND?_

Jack pushes down the stab of disappointment.

Of course.

* * *

 Turns out he didn't do half-bad on his midterms, and his mom nearly cries when he calls her to tell her the grades. Yeesh.

He meets up with Kristoff for a good chunk of his meals, sometimes with Anna and sometimes not, and Jack is always a little surprised that they don't run out of shit to talk about. Like, Jack considers himself a pretty good conversationalist—as long as you're into the whole snarky, upstart, _I'm-a-little-shit-but-you-still-love-me_ thing—but even _he_ has his limits, and limits are pretty much all Kristoff seems to be made of. Jack wonders, sometimes, if Kristoff has a quota for smiling. If he does, he takes it very seriously.

Surprisingly, Kristoff is far less talkative when Anna joins them.

Or perhaps not-so-surprisingly.

It's during one of these little luncheons in the far back corner of the dining hall that Jack notices something important. They're in their usual spot near the TVs, which is the spot Jack has conveniently chosen every time—despite their combined adventurousness and his natural curiosity for other dining hall-table locales—because Jack has stealthily learned that closed captioned TV programming is Kristoff's go-to defense mechanism slash attentional target every time Anna says something that gets him tongue-tied. Which is a lot. Anyway, Jack notices, for the first time, that for once Anna's tongue seems just as tied.

Not that he's ever gonna mention something like that out loud.

He happens to value his life and future.

Anyway, he's in the midst of plotting a devious scheme to get Kristoff to loosen up a bit when Anna turns to him and says that Flynn is throwing another party that weekend, and immediately, he can't fucking think.

Jack may be an idiot, but he's not _that_ much of an idiot; he knows what it means that a girl like Elsa never texted him back.

“That Hans guy isn't gonna be there, is he?”

For half a second, Jack is terrified that _he's_ the one who asked it, but the look on Anna's face tells him that it was clearly Kristoff. _Jesus._ This guy is not making his job any easier.

Turns out Hans _isn't_ going to be there, but it's only through Rapunzel that Jack learns this; Anna had staunchly denied any comment, Kristoff had gotten annoyed that he'd said something to offend Anna and clammed up, and Jack had deadpanned into his 3PM waffles. Rapunzel is far more forthcoming, two days later, especially when he spots her for the hot chocolate purchase on their trip past Starbucks. He doesn't let her pay him back simply because he's eaten way too many of her homemade cookies in the last two hours alone to even justify the three dollars he just spent on her hot cocoa, but as usual, she's not to be deterred.

“Hey—why don't you just consider your cover paid for Eugene's this weekend?” she insists brightly, tugging her scarf closer around her neck. “You're coming, right?”

“Er,” is his elegant reply. “I think I was gonna see about the friends from my dorm,” he lies. “I've been sorta neglecting them lately.” That part, unfortunately, is not a lie; these days, Jack doesn't seem to hang out with anybody these days but Anna's crew... only barely three months into college and he's already dug himself a clique.

Which is a problem in and of itself.

His underlying motives—the _complications—_ are another problem entirely.

Which is he trying to forget about completely.

Hence, he will not be coming to this party.

“Please?” she begs, as if she can see his internal struggle. She probably can. “Jack, please? Everybody's coming! We haven't all had a chance to hang out since everybody left for break, and I wanna see everybody before we leave again!”

He leaves off with a grin and a shrug and a _maybe_ , like that means anything.

* * *

He ends up going to the fucking party.

Not because he _hopes_ to see anyone in particular, but because Kristoff is totally fucking lost without him. Like, for fucking real, has he been living in a barn his whole damn life?

It starts with a simple decision to join in on the pre-gaming. That's safe enough, right? He can just go to the first apartment, make his presence known, do a round or two, and then head back to campus under the guise of meeting up with some other friends while everyone else heads off to Flynn's. Simple. Perfect solution.

Wrong.

Because he's starting to enjoy himself, and he _doesn't_ want to go spend another night moping in his dorm like a lonely loser, and most importantly, he realizes that Kristoff might actually need his help. Jack's off in the corner of Astrid's apartment with Hiccup, mostly interested in the engineering spiel that he is spitting off faster than Jack can actually process, and he's grateful that every so often Astrid will swing by and reel him in. There's a beer in his hand that he sips every now and then, but mostly it's just for show; his hands get too jittery, otherwise.

Anna and Rapunzel are laughing about something from the kitchen as they all whip up some strange sugary concoction with vodka that Jack can smell all the way from the other side of the apartment, and Hiccup's friends are all trying their best to flirt with them. Rapunzel made her unavailability clearly known from the beginning, but Anna, alas, is not yet spoken for; consequently, Kristoff is being gloomy on the couch, watching football with some guy they call Fishlegs.

Whatever.

Jack solidifies his reputation pretty quickly with the new crowd as the guy with a quick wit and a mischievous streak, and he's okay with that, especially when Astrid's sort-of-cute, kinda-weird-but-kinda-not friend starts eyeing him over the rim of her rum and coke in a _you're crazy—I like that_ sort of way, and _seriously_ , what kinds of nicknames do these people have? It's only as Ruffnut starts giving him _the_ _eye_ that Jack realizes how little Kristoff and Anna have looked at each other since they entered the apartment.

Balls.

He's not gonna say anything because dying at age eighteen is not on his to-do list, but he is gonna watch, and stand guard, and hope for the fucking best, because honestly, Kristoff is gonna need a fucking miracle if he doesn't bite the bullet and start talking to Anna soon. Eventually, someone _else is_ gonna be biting, and there are a hundred and one metaphorical analogy-contexts that Jack could delve into right now, and he is nowhere drunk enough for at least four of them.

But history has a funny way of repeating itself, and fate is a spiteful shrew and all that, because it's just as Jack is starting to really enjoy himself—meaningful looks across the necks of their glass bottles, and pseudo-bedroom eyes, the whole shebang—that something buzzes from his pocket, and—stupid and unsuspecting and naïve as ever—Jack takes a purposeful swig from his beer, and reads it.

 _Hey,_ says her text, like it hasn't been days; almost a week. _Will I see you tonight?_

Jackson Overland, smooth as ever, nearly chokes on his beer.

* * *

11PM, and Jack is still stewing in his own disbelief.

He's retreated down to the bottom of the stairs, even though he knows it's a risk; he looks way too young to pass for the legal drinking age and he reeks of alcohol, even if he's left his beer on the counter upstairs. It doesn't matter. Sitting on the bottom step of the complex is a hell of a lot better of an option right now than slipping out to Astrid's fire escape and potentially having someone follow him. If he's gonna be a pushover, he'd at least like to do it in peace.

 _Hey,_ he replies back, promptly, like it's no big deal, like his fingers aren't shaking and his head isn't pounding. _Haven't heard from you in a while. How've you been?_

He does not answer her question.

Jack finds himself staring at a speck on the floor, just as weirdly alone at the bottom of this strange staircase as he would've been if he'd just stayed back at the dorm. It _is_ a weird thought, especially since he told himself that he wasn't going to be _weird_ about this anymore—he _wanted_ to be around people, wanted it so badly—but here he is, spinning his phone around between his fingers while the distant sounds of a party drift past his ears, wondering when he'd become such a tool.

It isn't fair.

Of course—it's his own damn fault. Getting his hopes up when all Elsa had ever really done was be nice to him, and smile at him, and invite him to come dancing with her and her friends, one time. (“ _Eighteen_? _I—wow. Forgive me, but I thought you were—_ ”)

 _Ugh._ The mortification is still fresh, even almost two weeks later.

And then she'd realized that he was almost three years younger, and definitely three grades lower, and full of all sorts of freshman stereotypes that a near-graduate like her obviously didn't have time for. So what if they'd exchanged a couple of flirty texts? So what if his stomach fell out beneath him every time his phone chimed, for three days straight? They'd all gone home for Thanksgiving and as the old saying goes, _out of sight, out of mind_.

Fuck Thanksgiving. It's a shitty holiday, anyway.

His phone chimes, and it falls right the fuck out of of his hands onto the floor.

“Shit,” he mumbles, and scrambles for it.

 _Oh my god, yeah, I know,_ and it actually stings a little, because he can almost _hear_ her laugh, the way she had at karaoke night however many weeks ago. _This week has been a bit of a mess. I'm finally free, though. Are you coming to Flynn's?_

Jack stares at the text, gnawing at his lip.

He has absolutely no spine.

* * *

He's trying not to be an anxious wreck.

And who knows—maybe it's half-working, because people keep coming up and talking to him, fist-bumping and shaking his hand and punching him in the shoulder. He's sticking close to Kristoff, which he thinks the guy might sorta appreciate—he can't actually tell—and through it all, he's smiling often enough to crack open a cheek. Sometime around 12:30AM, some dude passes another beer into his hand, and he realizes that:  


(1) This is actually not the first time tonight that he's accepted another drink.  
(2) He can't actually remember the exact count of beers he's consumed.  
(3) He's certain it's four. Maybe.  
(4) There are a lot of Christmas lights and decorations strung the fuck up all over the place. That was probably Rapunzel's doing.  
(5) He is probably tipsy.  
(6) He is a strategic, genius bastard, because he is facing away from the door.  


There's a very real fear that Elsa is somehow going to be detoured on her way to Flynn's apartment, and it makes Jack's stomach churn unpleasantly with more than just alcohol. Fuck. He should go eat some fucking pretzels or something.

Wait, no. That's a terrible idea. He needs to stay put, _right here_. Inconspicuous as possible. Ruffnut keeps trying to catch his attention from across the room, but Jack pretends not to notice. Shit.

Maybe he _is_ a dick, after all.

“Aw, for fuck's sake,” groans Kristoff, out of nowhere. Jack is miserable enough to only be slightly concerned. “Look who showed up.”

Somehow he knows, and somehow he's not entirely prepared for it; Elsa and Hans arrive together, and Jack can only spare a split-second glance as Hans is helping Elsa remove her coat before he pointedly turns his gaze back to the wall. Stupidly, his chest burns.

“God, what a douche,” Kristoff scoffs, and Jack graciously decides not to comment. His next sip is more automatic than anything else.

“You should go find Anna,” is what he finally says, once he's mustered up the courage. He can't tell if it's the most selfish or selfless thing he's ever done, because he's at once urging his shield _and_ his barrier to _leave_. “She's probably gonna make a beeline for him as soon as she realizes he's here.”

Kristoff sends him a disgruntled sort of look, and Jack can only shrug. It's not like anyone _told_ him that there's some sort of weird love triangle going on between the Anna and her sister and Hans, however many lines of unrequited shit are strung between them, but he isn't a total idiot. Or maybe he is, because otherwise he might not have gotten himself dragged into this, but it's too late now, and Kristoff is starting to get a look in his eye like he's actually considering Jack's advice.

Good fucking luck, man.

Kristoff leaves in search of Anna, and Jack is left alone.

Which brings him to his most recent conclusion: that he _is_ an idiot, because even though no one has come right out and told him, he _knows_ there's something awkward going on between Anna and her sister and Hans, and that being somewhere in the middle of it isn't exactly the prime place to be.

The fact that he sorta _hopes_ he is, is what makes it all worse.

She finds him almost ten minutes later by a window that's been cracked open for a bit of a breeze, and he grins and straightens himself up even as his heart starts to thud against his ribs. Shit. He wishes he'd worn something different—not this old, faded flannel and these old, faded jeans—like he'd actually _anticipated_ this turn of events, rather than just kept the same old day clothes he'd carelessly worn to class. It's then that he sees she's wearing an overlong sweater with a cartoonized reindeer face smack dab in the middle, and this Rudolph character is wearing a pair of overlarge thin-rimmed glasses made entirely of sequins. It's not exactly ugly, but—

Oh, _shit._

Takes a covert glance around the room. Holly. Christmas lights. Holiday _music_ , although he hadn't paid it much notice before. Red solo cups— _wait_ , no, that's normal. Holiday sweaters, everywhere, on everyone. Tacky ones. Fuck.

Somehow, according to pure Jackson Overland luck and logic, he's at an Ugly Christmas Sweater Party as the only kid not wearing an ugly sweater. His mouth is suddenly very dry.

He hasn't seen her since that night in the city.

“You made it,” she greets, smile wide, and his whole stomach flips right the fuck over.

He tries to think of something witty to say but comes up short. Opts for friendly, instead. Just in case. Asks her how her Thanksgiving went, if she and Anna had stuffed their faces with pie, et cetera. The usual friendly chatter. Totally normal, except for the swirling feeling in his gut.

He holds onto his beer bottle, long after he actually finishes it.

Conversation floats on easily enough, but Jack can't help but feel that it's missing something. The minutes wear on, and Jack feels the empty rush of disappointment with each one, like somehow their interaction has transformed from natural excitement to polite small-talk, and Jack has no idea why. It's simple, and it's easy, but his insides are fluttering with nerves, and the conversation topics are ( _too_ ) safe, and they're smiling, but Jack can't help but feel that Elsa is going to run off at any moment. He's too entranced by her to feel bored, but, maybe, at the same time, _just a little—_

“Elsa,” is what cuts him off, mid-sentence. He'd actually been in the middle of a story, and it's a pretty good one—something confidently funny—but his hand stills mid-air and his eyes snap up to the figure behind Elsa's shoulder just as soon as her head swivels to the side.

“Hans,” she greets, and it sounds polite enough, but there's a slippery sort of tension that Jack doesn't really understand.

“Could I borrow you for a moment?”

Jack shifts, slowly takes a swig from his beer. He's met Hans before—karaoke night—and has seen him around maybe a handful of times since. They don't nod to one another; Jack doesn't because he's too involved in the weird dynamics playing out before him, and Hans... who knows. He at least usually makes a _show_ of being courteous.

It takes Jack a moment to realize that Elsa has politely declined. It's only when Hans eyes flick towards his— _suspicious? annoyed? resentful?_ —that Jack realizes _he_ must have been part of the reason why. His chest swells with petty victory, until Hans inclines his head and makes his leave. Deflating, Jack realizes that their brief encounter with Hans was at least twice as exciting as his stupid story. He doesn't really feel like finishing it, at the moment.

“Sorry about that,” Elsa laughs, like she's ready to brush the whole thing off. There's a gleam in her eyes that confuses him, but then again—what doesn't, these days

Jack shrugs. Thinks for some reason that he probably won't be able to brush it off as easily as she will, though not for a lack of trying.

“Hey,” he starts, before the awkward moment of silence rises up to choke him. He bites his tongue, calculating the risk, then, “For some reason I was under the impression you two didn't get along.”

Elsa looks confused, and perhaps a little amused. “We work in the same field,” she answers simply. “And our circles tend to cross pretty often.”

Jack wonders if by _circles_ she specifically means her _sister,_ but decides not to mention it.

Elsa takes over the talking for a little while then, and the conversation is subtly but surely steered towards _him._ How he's doing in school. What he thinks of college so far. It's nice, but also vaguely humiliating. He can't tell it feels more like he's a fumbling first-year talking to a _really_ hot, really intimidating academic advisor, or more like he's stumbling his way through a hard-as-hell interview, in which he sweats and she smiles, and in the end, the only job he really wants is _please, make out with me_ , but his resume is all wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

It's 1AM when it starts—the fuzzy but sinking conviction in his chest that she's just being polite, and is silently strategizing her opportune moment to make a break for it. Once the idea enters his mind, it won't leave, and with each passing minute, his distress becomes all the greater. It grows increasingly hard to pay attention to what she's saying. Since when is Jackson Overland a stiff, uncomfortable mess?

Since now, apparently.

There are at least three metaphorical contexts Jack could explore right now, and he is entirely too sober for at least two of them.

“Jack?” Elsa slips into his brain, and he almost startles. She looks a little amused, until his eyes flick to hers, and then she just looks concerned. “Are you all right?”

Nope.

“Yeah. Totally fine,” he grins, shakes it off, like _he's_ the one who's amused by the question, then dives right back into the conversation, with purpose.

He has the feeling that this conversation is supposed to be _leading_ to something... but Jack's always been a little too nearsighted to be entirely convenient, and with all the back-tracking and start-stops, Jack can't help but feel like they haven't moved at all.

The absolute worst moment, of course, is when Elsa's friend Merida stops by with a few quiet words—a pointed _look_ , in his direction; Jack nods—and Elsa politely excuses herself to the kitchen.

Great.

Maybe if he'd just _relax_ for one goddamn second, he could start acting like himself again. However short his shortcomings are, they can't be half as bad as what he'd just presented for the last near-hour. But he couldn't help it.

Elsa isn't that much older, but she's a hell of lot more sure of herself, what with that whole _I'm-a-classy-adult_ thing she has going, and as comfortable as he feels around her—or _had_ felt _,_ anyway—he can't deny that he's (ir)rationally terrified of somehow offending her, or otherwise diminishing himself in any way that his age and grade status hasn't done already. He's never heard her swear—though he suspects that she _does_ , occasionally—and she never speaks unless she has something worth mentioning (it's always worth mentioning) so her thoughtful intentionality and premeditated speech is a little intimidating for Jack, who always blurts out the first fucking thing in his mouth.

Head. In his head.

He can't think about mouths anymore.

(And just where, exactly, is the line between being a gentleman or a coward? If you'd have asked him five months ago, he would have called himself neither.

Now he's both?)

Jack hangs his head at the window, nursing an empty bottle of beer between his fingers. Outside is dark, save for the Christmas lights that are hung around the neighbors' sidewalls and shrubbery, and there is the distinct sound of people milling about on the sidewalk, laughing and cheering and talking too loudly as they pass up and down the winding hill of pavement and concrete. Everyone's having a grand, old time.

Fuck college.

* * *

_Yo, douchebag just left and Anna's upset and wants to go home. You okay to walk back by yourself?_

It figures.

Jack texts him back almost immediately, telling him to get on with the chivalry. He's glad for him, because this is probably just the opportunity Kristoff needs, but now Jack's left without a paddle, or whatever the stupid saying is, and he's probably gonna end up taking a cab. He could totally walk the two miles home himself, but he made a promise to his mom and— _yarghh_. It's not worth it.

The whole apartment is still hazed with rambunctious energy, and Jack feels like the worst kind of Scrooge. The night is relatively young—like _him—_ and people are relatively buzzed, and Jack's still just sort of aimlessly mingling about, talking to everyone and introducing himself and laughing at jokes that he might find a bit funnier on any other day, and everyone around him is too damn jolly for their own good.

He finds Rapunzel in the galley kitchen, switching out the snack bowls, and her cheeks are tinged pink. He helps her open up another bag of chips and makes a couple of mountains on some snowman plates, and listens to her excited babbling all the while. She's obviously staying the night at her boyfriend's, which means that the taxi plan is looking like the obvious choice for the evening. Sigh.

They're laughing about something stupid—the look in the reindeer's eye on the side of a package—when Rapunzel looks up to doorway and giggles, “Speaking of reindeer.”

Jack's still smiling when he glances up, and he hopes his face doesn't look as frozen as it feels.

“Everything okay with Anna?” Rapunzel asks around a mouthful of cookie; she's concerned, but not enough to miss out another bite of chocolate chips.

Elsa's smile is tired, and a little strained, and Jack suddenly feels much more aware of the situation—much more aware of _himself_ —than he did two seconds ago. “For the most part,” is her diplomatic reply.

It's a lot easier to talk to Elsa now that there's another person in the equation, and Jack is able to feel a lot more playful and foolish next to Rapunzel's easy lightheartedness. Jack even sticks around to help her wash some dishes, just so they can chat about trivial things and blow dish soap bubbles off their hands, and for once, Jack doesn't exactly care that he probably looks like a spaz. Even if Elsa _is_ watching him and Rapunzel from the counter, drying dishes one-by-one as they slowly work their way through the sink.

“That's the only downside to these parties,” Rapunzel announces, scrubbing with her fingernail at a piece of something that's stuck to the plate-snowman's tooth. “No one's ever really ready to call it a night.”

Jack's eyes glance toward the clock. 3AM. Holy shit.

His wide eyes turn back to Rapunzel, who's now laughing at something Elsa has said, but he'd missed it. Insanely curious, Jack offers a wry smile and a supremely-questioning brow, but Rapunzel only laughs at his expression, and no doubt forgets what Elsa's said in the first place.

“Blondie!” someone calls, and the next thing Jack knows, Rapunzel is being swept off by a dashing Flynn to some nearby doorway with a bit of mistletoe, and Jack's stomach suddenly turns queasy.

“Well, I think I've seen enough snowmen for one night,” Jack says casually, setting another dry plate into the stack on the counter. He has no frickin' idea which cabinet they're supposed to go in, and he ain't about to guess. “I'm gonna head out."

“Hang on,” says Elsa, which nearly startles his heart right into his stomach, because she's placed a hand against his shoulder and, “Let me grab my coat.”

He's left standing alone in the kitchen, blinking.

And then he remembers to move.

* * *

His coat feels too bulky, but he's not even going to _consider_ going without it. It is balls cold outside.

After making a dash to Flynn's room—where he and some of the others had stashed their stuff—and making a beeline back for the kitchen, all Jack can do is lean against the counter awkwardly, and wait.

Elsa returns not more than a minute later, just mere seconds after Jack feels he has successfully composed himself, and it's then that he realizes she's wearing the same peacoat as before—that night, when he ran into her in the city. His throat gets very tight.

“Ready?” she smiles brightly, and Jack's feet move without his knowledge. There's a sort of edge to her smile that Jack doesn't particularly like; it makes him feel vulnerable in her presence. More so than usual, anyway.

Jack is super conscious of how closely Elsa follows him into the living room; they say their goodbyes and Rapunzel—seriously, _Rapunzel—_ doesn't even so much as bat an eye at the two of them leaving together so Jack is therefore convinced that this _can't_ be interpreted _that_ way.

Can it?

They exit the complex to a world of dark, and their chatter is quiet and hushed as they make their way down the long, winding hill toward the main street. It explodes into a massive intersection, with all sorts of bars and late night-coffee places, but it's mostly devoid of pedestrians and most of the businesses have already shut down for the night. It _is_ nearing 4AM, and the number of people crazy enough to be up at this hour is steadily dwindling. The only other movement is the occasional stream of cars under the stoplights, and a few small groups of people loitering on stoops and under bar signs. Most of them are couples.

“Which way are you headed?” Elsa asks, startling him from his tipsy observations, and Jack is annoyed with himself that he hadn't the presence to mind to ask first.

He jerks a thumb and grins almost sheepishly. “Back to campus.” Good ol' dorm life. _Great_. “How 'bout you?”

“My apartment is just two blocks up this way,” she swivels at the waist, nodding toward the line of streetlamps behind her. Jack frowns, but can't say he's surprised; they're going in the opposite directions.

“—afar walk?”

Jack blinks. “What?”

“I said, 'Isn't that a far walk?'”

“Oh. Yeah, but it's fine. Who knows, I'll probably just hitch a ride in a cab back to the dorms. Or, you know,” Jack added hastily, at the look of mild alarm on her face, “It's not a bad night for a brisk walk, either.”

Elsa seems unconvinced.

“How'd you get here?” she asks, arching a brow.

“Bunch of us walked over from Astrid's,” he shrugs, because honestly, he doesn't see the big deal. Yeah, it's a little annoying, and he doesn't really have the spare cash for a cab, but it's not like—

“Just sleep at my place, then.”

Jack stares.

He has obviously misheard her.

“Your place?” he echoes, more surprised than anything to find that he still has a voice at all. That it _works_.

“Yeah,” Elsa answers, and he can't _read_ her face, but there's the tiniest shrug of her shoulders that dries his mouth out faster than a wad of cotton. “I mean, it's pretty humble, all things considered, but... I've got plenty of space for one more.” She's _smiling_ at him, just a little, and he can feel his face warming already. His heart pounds in his ears, and she shrugs again, and asks, “What d'you say?”  
  
Fuck.

“I... would say that's a very gracious offer,” he manages, because heat is already pooling steadily in his gut, and that's the best he can do. _Fuck_ , she's gorgeous.

Her hands are stuffed into her pockets and her braid is hanging over the giant lapel of her coat, and her lips are quirking at him like he's just said something funny, and he's terrified, for half-a-second, that he's spoken aloud, and then realizes, horrifically, that he hasn't _actually_ accepted her offer yet _._

“Would a cup of hot chocolate help to sweeten the deal?” she asks, takes a marginal step closer, and he's sure of it now; she _is_ laughing at him. He doesn't mind.

“I... _do_ love hot chocolate,” he whispers, because his throat is incapable of anything else, and because, suddenly, he gets the _inexplicable_ , inescapable feeling—

They're not actually discussing hot chocolate.

His heart is beating so fast. She's beautiful, and smart, and just the teensiest inch shorter than he is with her heels on, and he has a strange but certain impression that she could probably punch him in the face without even thinking twice about it, and did she just take another step closer?

“Look,” she breathes, and if it were any colder their breaths would be mingling, little wisps of vapor beneath the red-yellow glow of the the streetlights— “I'm gonna come right out and be honest, because I don't do very well with secrets much these days. I like you,” she tells him, eyes clear, “And I'd like to invite you back to my apartment, so if that's something you'd like to—”

Jack kisses her.

“Shit,” he breathes, when he pulls back. Impulse control. _Impulse control._ “Sorry, I—”

His apology is lost to the press of Elsa's mouth, who has to wrap her fingers around the base of his skull to match his lips to hers. They're moving instantly—her tongue finds his, immediately—and his fingers tuck tightly around her waist and her chest rubs flush against his—but their wearing goddamn _coats,_ fuck—her nose is against his cheek and the wind is on their skin, and his fingers are halfway numb, and his brain is—

“Come with me,” she whispers against his mouth, fingernails dragging along the back of his neck.

It should come as a surprise to fucking no one that he does.

* * *

 

Her hand slips into his, fingers gone pleasantly numb from the cold, and once she's threaded them up tight, she leads.

Jack follows at her side, still acutely aware of his grip on her hand and the warm sensation still lingering at his lips, at the bite of the night air just under the collar of his coat, where sweat has already begun to gather. There isn't any talk now, hushed or otherwise, but their steps are quick along the concrete, and their breaths are short and full of breathy laughter, and only twice does Jack stop her along the way to steal a kiss.

The second— _third?_ —lasts so much longer than the first.

Jack is suspiciously out of breath and still laughing as Elsa suddenly turns and yanks his hand toward a small gate on the left, which she opens and hastily closes as soon as he's through, and then they are both scurrying along a stone path toward the front door of what appears to be a house, but once they stumble up the steps Jack sees that there are different levels within, and Elsa's fumbling with the keys and he has the stupidest urge, right now, to distract her.

The door is open before he can even lean forward, and of _course_ she happens to live on the second story, so it's not until the door is securely locked behind her that Jack surges back in—only to stumble, because Elsa is already off in pursuit of the winding, narrow staircase, dragging him up by the hand, and Jack is grinning like an idiot as he trails up after her, legs burning with effort and feet stumbling with foolishness, and when she glances back to smile at him, he actually trips.

The apartment inside is pitch black, but that doesn't stop Jack from pushing Elsa back against the door as it closes. A soft sigh escapes her—it pulls a broken sound from his mouth—and then her keys drop the floor at her feet. They laugh in the dark as she fumbles with the locks behind her—he unbuttons her coat as she unzips his—and the cool rush of air is an electric relief, prickling at the cooling sweat at his neck and his back, and as his open mouth closes down on Elsa's again, he selfishly decides that he'd like to _see_.

It's somewhere past 4AM, and Jack is standing at the threshold of Elsa's apartment, sucking on her neck against a door. Her fingernails are digging trails through his hair, and her mouth is hot and wet and his jeans are no longer comfortable.

He vaguely recognizes that the buttons to his flannel shirt are being undone for him, and a surge of heat creases and crackles down his spine. He starts ripping his arms from the sleeves before she's even made it all the way to the bottom—nimble fingers and _oh,_ fuck, _experienced_ , apparently—but before he can even really dwell on that, he's free of his flannel and her fingers slip beneath the line of his t-shirt, and Jack actually gasps into her mouth.

She toes off her shoes with practiced grace, and Jack groans at the sudden dip she takes in height—he'll be embarrassed tomorrow; or not— _whatever—_ and presses his hands lower onto her back, nowhere near grazing the end of her sweater. Fucking near-sighted reindeer. It comes down to the tops of her thighs.

Pulls away just enough to grab her attention, lowers his hands meaningfully over the swell of her perfect ass, curling his palms _just_ under—just enough to make his intentions known. She nods eagerly, panting, and in the next moment, Jack has her gathered in his arms, fingers holding tight to the bottoms of her legging thighs, and her face is lifted higher, her back pressed back once more against the wall, and her arms curl around his neck to—

A fucking _alarm_ goes off from someone's pocket, and Jack nearly fucking drops her.

He winces as her nails bite into his skin—she hisses a quick, _sorry,_ as she slides down the door _—_ and then Jack is left with the startling realization that he is quickly losing the bundle in his arms to a cell phone on the floor, and he is still almost-fully-fucking-dressed, and hard as a fucking rock.

He needs to slow the fuck down.

Jack braces a forearm against the door while Elsa bends down to retrieve her phone. Maybe he should be offended, but mostly, he's just grateful. He chances a quick glance down at his dick, then jerks his eyes back up, willing himself to think about all things cold. Showers. Snowstorms. Anything.

She looks really pretty in the blue light from her phone.

Jack is a goner.

“Sorry,” she murmurs regretfully, and he almost jerks in response, even though her movements are slow and controlled and probably four times as graceful as he'll ever be. “Anna has a... very distinct ringtone. She knows to text me whenever she... I just wanted to make sure she got back okay.”

Jack's throat is hot. His whole body is still too hot, but it's steadily cooling. “No problem,” he manages, because it's not. He can't help but wonder, however, _what now?_

He manages to see a slip of Elsa's smile before her phone goes dark, and then her laughter fills the darkness.

“Here, I'll turn on some lights,” she offers, and she sounds suspiciously normal, which worries him, until her hand finds his neck, cool fingers sliding easily over skin. “You don't mind some Christmas lights, do you?”

Never.

The first thing he sees is their shit, literally flung all over the goddamn place— _and tinted blue?_ Jack's gaze swivels to the windows, where he spies Elsa, arranging plugs into outlets and slowly but surely bringing light back into the room.

“Icicles,” he says, without thinking.

Elsa smiles at him from across the room, and Jack feels strangely proud for no good reason at all. “They're my favorite,” she tells him, quietly pleased. “I like the blue lights the most, but I've got plenty of all of them.”

And so she does. Christmas lights of all colors come to life in all sorts of places—a small tree in the corner, hung on the wall above a couch—and little-by-little, Jack can see more of her. His chest feels tight all over again. She flickers on a lamp near the door, bathing the rest of the room in soft, weak light, and then clearly directs him to the kitchen beyond the threshold—where he is still standing, awkwardly, _oh shit_ —and gives him clear instructions on where to find the hot cocoa. He clumsily pulls off his shoes and his socks, and then pads his way over onto kitchen tile.

Elsa, he learns, takes hot chocolate very seriously.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, though he's not as quiet as he'd thought; he can hear her laughing at him. Again. “Did you buy out the whole store?”

“I like sampling the flavors,” Elsa calls from the living room, and Jack stills to make sure he can hear. “I don't like sticking to just one.”

His lips quirk into a frown, but he brushes it off. Grabs a canister of the most original one he can find—peppermint, caramel, dark, marshmallows, _holy fuck_ —and says, “Milk chocolate okay?”

She calls back, cheerful and affirming, “Fine!”

Jack shrugs and gets to work.

He's not really sure how he's ended up here, digging through Elsa's cabinets for coffee mugs to make them hot chocolate while one of his shirts lies five feet away on the floor, but his whole body seizes up with nerves and anticipation as she steps into the space of the kitchen. He hadn't realized how relaxed he'd gotten, until now.

“Thanks for getting it started,” she smiles, even though all he’s done is gathered the ingredients, then easily slips into his space. He realizes that _he_ has lost more clothing than she has—wonders, instantly, how to go about rectifying this—and then the mug he was about to set on the counter is gently pulled from his hand—their fingers brush— _is that okay?_ —how close is he allowed to—?

This kiss is warm and soft, and her lips are dry and smooth. Jack remains frozen, doesn't dare breathe, and when she slowly pulls away, his eyes slowly flutter open.

“Why me?” he asks, before he can pull the proverbial gun away from his foot, for _fuck's sake_ ,Jack.

He wants to snatch the words right back out of the air, but he also can't bring himself to regret it; he wants to know.

Elsa seems surprised—tilts her head to the side, makes a face, just for a second—but not as confused as she could be. He's not sure if he should be relieved about that, or worried. Vaguely, his heart sinks.

“What do you mean?”

He looks down at her— _so_ smart, and so pretty, and witty, and—feels incredibly inadequate, all of a sudden, in his basic white t-shirt and bare feet, surrounded by all the makings of young professional, by the humble furniture and the personal touches and the fact that she pays rent every month and residence hall policy _does not dictate_ whether or not she is _allowed_ to hang Christmas lights on her walls, and—

“I mean,” Jack starts, fidgety fingers cutting trails through his unruly hair. “You know I can't take you out anywhere,” is what he says, which is a terrible way to start this explanation, but fucking whatever, “And you know that I'm, like—” _Ohgod, please shut up. “—_ three years younger than you, and I still live in a dorm with a roommate, so it's not like I'd ever have somewhere to invite you back to, or—” _Ohgod, please. Shut up._ “I—I'm not like, trying to get— _ahead_ of myself, or anything. I'm just tryin' to make a point. Shit. You know what? Forget I said anything. This was probably horribly unattractive, and I'm just gonna stop talking, right now. I'm just gonna—”

“Jack,” she cuts in firmly, and her hand on his chest is gentle, but her voice is steely ice.

Fuck.

He couldn't answer her if he'd tried.

“I have a question for you,” she quietly reveals, and Jack is alarmingly distracted by the way her fingers smooth out the wrinkles beneath his collar.

He swallows. “Okay.”

“Are you interested in getting married within the next five years?”

Jack stares, shell-shocked; he knows _his_ answer, but can't help feeling like he's walking into a trap.

“No...?”

“Then you and I are on the same page,” she concludes, eyeing the cotton threads of his collar. Jack forces himself not to swallow as her fingertips ghost along the curve, teasing the skin at the base of his throat. Her eyes snap up to his suddenly, meaningfully, “You'd be surprised at how hard that is to come by these days.”

He's momentarily distracted by her words—then at the implications, because Jack has gotta admit: Elsa _does_ seem like Grade-A marriage-material—

Stops that thought dead in its tracks.

Lets himself smile instead, slowly, testing the waters— _wry for wry_.

“So, what,” he teases quietly, “I'm like—your ticket to the fountain of youth?” Tilts his head, cracks a grin. “It's a little early to be cashing in, don't you think?”

Elsa's eyes darken, just a shade. His tongue goes dry. Her hips close in on his.

The cocky, upstart act all but fades.

“Is it?” she whispers, inching closer.

Jack panics. “I make dumb jokes when I'm nervous,” he blurts, then wants to _kick_ himself.

Elsa briefly stills; considers him and his honesty. After a shifting beat, quietly admits, "When I get nervous, I shut people out."

Jack blinks. He's not sure what to do with that information.

As if she can read the look on his face, Elsa curls her fingers into his collar, ever-so-slightly, redirecting his attention back to the feel of her hands on him; at some point, her other hand had joined, and they both cling to the soft fabric of his t-shirt. There's an underlying meaning to the swipe of her thumb over his clavicle, and his lower stomach clenches in response. Faintly, his cock twitches under the tight press of his jeans, but Jack's too entranced by the way her thumb is sliding up his throat—her whole hand cradling the tendons in his neck—and absently comes to brush along his lower lip.

“I invited you back to my apartment because I'm interested in you,” she tells him—so directly, so _candid_ —with her fingers splayed firm along his cheek. He can feel himself hardening now, and it's a dizzying feeling—all his blood rushing _one_ way, and all his heart rushing up another—but she isn't done, _she isn't_ — “Your sense of humor is very attractive, and your genuineness is... refreshing.”

Jack raises a brow at that; admits to himself that he likes the way the muscles in his face shift beneath her touch, the way her fingers press and yield to his skin. “Refreshing,” he echoes, because as fucking _into_ this as he is right now, he's not so sure if that's a good thing.

Elsa allows herself a little smile, and Jack decides— _you know what? Fuck it._ He'd tried his hand at thinking through his actions _before_ reaping the consequences, and it apparently isn't his style.

“I also may have realized recently that this was probably inevitable,” she reveals, which is one _hell_ of a turn for the unexpected on Jack's end, and, “Not to mention the most practical option.”

Jack had never been practical in his life. “Yeah?” he frowns, perplexed. His breath hitches as her hands trail down over his chest—his abs, _his_ —and again, when her cool fingers slip beneath his shirt, once more. Through a startled rasp, he swallows, “Why's that?”

Elsa presses closer into him, and Jack's hand snakes out to the counter for balance. Her hands roam his abs, dragging blunt little lines down his muscles, and a sound comes deep and broken from the back of Jack's throat when her hands tread a little _too_ low.

What. No. Never too low. _Never too low—_

He hiccups a gasp when she presses her mouth to the underside of his jaw, and twitching, curling fingers find their way to the fabric of her sweater, bunching it into his fists, dragging it up. His eyes fall closed at the trail of kisses she leaves there, breathy laughter mingling with warms lips and tongue.

"Because,” she whispers, right into his skin, and Jack blinks at the ceiling, _grounds_ himself in the feel of her rubbing imperceptibly against his cock, lifts up the edge of her sweater until he can press his palms to the small of her back. He pulls her closer against him, relishing the soundless gasp her mouth makes against his neck. Tilts his face down to find hers, huffs in mindless agitation when she refuses to meet him, chooses instead to drag her lips down his jugular. His knees shake, and his hips fall back against the counter. There was a question she was answering. Something important. Jack can't remember— _his shirt is being lifted over his chest—_ something important— _yanked over his head, catching briefly on his chin—_ not important, nothing important, ever.

Jack's mouth falls open as Elsa's hands glide over his chest, and he is _so_ hard against her, there's no way she can't feel it, and it's as his fingers take hold of the stupid sweater at last and pull it over her head that Elsa releases a breathless laugh, reaches up to take hold of his face in her hands. His hands roam the length of her bare arms— _so smooth, so small_ —and then come to rest upon her shoulders, ruffling the straps of her tank top, until they are on either side of her jaw, much the same way that hers hold his.

“If we're being honest,” Elsa whispers, just a fraction before his lips meet hers, “I'd like to point out how very inconvenient it is to have a decent conversation with you when all I want to do is lick your neck.”

Jack nearly chokes on his next breath, but then Elsa's mouth reaches up for his, and then her laughter is all he can taste.

* * *

College is awesome.

 

 


End file.
